YANGZHOU IMPRESSIONS #10:
FINAL IMPRESSIONS


From now on, I can be reached at my regular AOL email address:
FRAYC1105@AOL.COM. The China Net email address, Fray@Public.yz.js,cn, is
no longer valid.


 In December, I gave a lecture to about a hundred Yangzhou English
teachers from various middle schools entitled, ñThe Role of Technology
in Foreign Language Instruction.î I spent several days surfing the Web
and organizing various web sites into substantive illustrations for the
content of my talk. Although the lecture hall had neither heat nor
Internet access, it did have an LCD, a computer with the works, VCR, and
stereo equipment.

 The lecture seemed to go well, but again, it was hard to gauge the
audienceÍs reaction. In a country obsessed with preparing the students
to pass the National Exam after Senior 3, the concept of organizing a
lesson plan around employing language learning software or doing
research on the Internet just may have gone over like a lead balloon. On
the other hand, perhaps it enabled a few teachers to dream of
possibilities, which was my hope at the onset.

 A few nights later, I attended a concert at Friendship Hall in downtown
Yangzhou. I had helped two of my students to improve their pronunciation
for a duet which they were singing, Peabo Bryson and Regina BelleÍs ñA
Whole New Worldî. Now, as I watched them onstage, I mouthed the words as
they sang, hoping theyÍd remember what we had practiced. The concert
capped a full day conference among Jiangsu ProvinceÍs four Key Middle
Schools, the other three being Nanjing, Changzhou and Suzhou Middle
Schools. After several singing and dance numbers in which Yangzhou
Middle School was given the opportunity to showcase its musical talents,
the principals gave self-congratulatory speeches and we all set out into
the chilly evening of a Thursday in December.
 Since I had my camcorder with me anyway, I filmed Yangzhou at night as
I headed towards Wen He Road, YangzhouÍs main thoroughfare. When I was
sufficiently chilled, I popped into McDonalds for dinner and amused the
cashiers by filming them as they took my order and having them teach me
how to say ñcheeseburgerî in Chinese. As I took the last bite out of my
ñhambabaî, a young girl of about sixteen approached me at my table and
introduced herself. She was from Yangzhou Affiliated Middle School,
where my colleague Toby Watson will be teaching beginning in February.
She said her whole school is very excited about TobyÍs arrival. She also
had a few grammar questions and wondered if I could help her with them.
 An hour later, after trying to explain whose ñwhoÍsî is whose and
debating the merits of when to use ñthisî and ñthatî, I asked her about
her life. When she was ten, her parents moved from Yangzhou to Southern
China, not far from Hong Kong. They left her with her grandmother in
Yangzhou as they felt that she would receive a better education here.
Her grandmother died when she was fifteen and up until she was sixteen,
she still cried at night from the ache of missing her parents. At
seventeen, she has been living on her own for two years. Her parents pay
a woman to cook for her and they provide her with enough money to live
on. She sees them twice a year, during Spring Festival Break and Summer
Break. She says that the reason she doesnÍt like visiting them is that
when she goes home to her parents, she canÍt seem to concentrate enough
to get any studying done. She also said that if she doesnÍt pass the
National Exam this year, sheÍll get a job and study hard to pass it the
following year. After leaving McDonalds, she accompanied me back to
Yangzhou Middle School on her bicycle as she had a tutoring session with
a teacher to help her improve her math.
 The next day, I could barely get through my classes and knew that
something was wrong. I went to bed early that night and ended up
spending the next ten days in bed. Ji Chunhong organized food rotations
and the only time I went to my door was to accept dumplings, fruit,
milk, soup, pork dishes and other staples to help get me through the
worst of it. The only time I ventured out of my apartment in those ten
days was to go to the Yangzhou PeopleÍs Hospital to get a chest x-ray. A
kindly doctor, whom I had met a few weeks before, Doctor Zhu, came to
listen to my chest with a stethoscope and feared that I might have
pneumonia.
The x-ray took about five minutes, was free of charge, and showed that I
simply had a bad case of bronchitis. Towards the end of my illness,
first Linda and Russell, and then Enoch and Nimitz, some of my favorite
and most dependable students, visited me in my apartment. Linda reported
that Judy was out of the hospital and would have to recuperate at home
for another month. Enoch and Nimitz told me that after they left my
apartment, they were going to a lecture at another school on the
development of ChinaÍs economy. The day after Enoch and NimitzÍs visit,
I spent two hours Christmas shopping at Yangzhou Department Store and
knew that I was by then well on the road to recovery.
After having missed a week of teaching, it was nice to return during
Christmas week. Before I fell ill, I had assigned each student in my
classes a ñSecret Santaî and happily watched them exchange small gifts
with each other as a way of taking part in this tradition. I also
brought in a menorah I had bought in Israel and explained to the class
the Hanukkah tradition so that they knew that Christianity is not the
only religion in America. Finally, I gave a gift to all of my classes
for Christmas, the gift of laughter. My friends Mark and Dennis had lent
me a videocassette of famous ñI Love Lucyî episodes. The one which I
chose to show to the class was the episode called ñLucyÍs Italian
Adventureî in which Lucy does research for a bit part in an Italian film
by visiting the local winery. The Chinese are big on physical comedy as
evidenced by their enduring love for Charlie Chaplin. I think that this
episode elevated Lucy to the pantheon of brilliant comedians among my
students. Mark had told me that after showing the same episode to all of
his classes in Suzhou, he still laughed as hard the tenth time as he did
the first. I vividly recall laughing just as hard during the tenth
episode as during the first, especially when Lucy gets in the fight with
the Italian woman in the wine vat. I especially recall focusing on one
of my students as she first erupted with laughter, then smacked her hand
on her desk several times as Lucy smashed grapes into the wine vat
workerÍs face. Finally, she veritably howled and then fell into her
friendÍs shoulder to help prop her up as Lucy and the Italian woman fell
into the wine vat and went at it. Tears of laughter streamed down my
cheeks just from watching this student.


On December 23rd, the Foreign Language Department at my school organized
a Christmas dinner in a local restaurant to help me feel less homesick.
We all sat around a large round table with a Mongolian Hot Pot in the
center, alternately picking out pieces of meat and vegetables from the
steaming broth. Four of my favorite co-workers were in attendance, all
young women from the department who like to tease me and each other on a
regular basis. ItÍs always fun to see ñPamî, ñCathyî, ñChristineî and
ñNancyî in action as theyÍve been very good friends for a number of
years and tend to export their mischievous brand of humor in whichever
situation they find themselves.

 At one point during the dinner, I had made a clever play on words and
ñCathyî, whom I refer to simply as ñTroubleî due to her status as an
instigator, looked at me and declared, ñYou are very foxy!î I waited a
polite ten seconds or so and then announced to the entire table, ñYou
know Cathy, in America ïfoxyÍ does not mean ïcleverÍ. It means
ñExtremely Sexy.î This, of course, sent the table into peels of laughter
and caused Pam and Cathy to jump out of their seats and point at me,
shouting, ñYes, you are, you are very sexy!î until I pleaded with them
to stop with tears of laughter in my eyes.

Towards the end of the dinner, Cathy excused herself to call her husband
and came back to announce that she was angry with him. He was out at a
karaoke bar with some workmates and didnÍt want her to join them. ñSo
who wants to go do karaoke tonight?î she announced to the table with a
familiar glimmer of mischief in her eye, her voiceÍs crafty intonation
promising a night of laughs. About six of us decided to go and with a
very Chinese abrupt ending to dinner, we mounted our bikes and set off
to points unknown.

Cathy sidled up next to me as we rode down Huaihai Lu and displayed an
uncharacteristic loss for words as she attempted to start up a
conversation. ñUh, Chris, em, uh. I have a question for you. Please
promise me that you wonÍt tell anyone that I asked you this.î When I
consented, she said, ñChris, do you, ah, do you sleep with women?î I
nearly fell off my bike. I could instantly picture the local headlines:
ñForeigner, Outed On Huaihai Lu, Falls Dead From Heart Attackî. Instead,
I prodded her to explain what she meant. ñI mean,î she clarified, ñdo
you, uh, want to sleep with girls while you are in Yangzhou? You are
here for a long time.î

 YangzhouÍs evening car horns, bicycle bells and street hawkers drowned
out my sigh of relief. ñWell, uh, not sleeping with women actually
hasnÍt been a problem.î I told her. ñYou know, IÍve lived at sea for
four or five months at a time without sleeping with women and I havenÍt
had a problem. Now, if I were here for an entire year, it might be
another story.î She pondered this bit of information for a moment as she
looked down at the rushing pavement beneath us. ñYou know, people in
China do not talk about sex with each other. Do people in America? Can
you talk about sex with women?î she asked. I tried desperately to place
each question from Cathy in its proper cultural context. ñWell, sure. I
donÍt talk about sex with every woman I know, but certainly with my
close women friends. This is considered acceptable in America.î Cathy
looked suddenly pensive and her voice grew a bit faint. ñYou know I
canÍt talk about sex even with my close women friends. Sometimes I can
talk a little bit with Pam because she is older than I am and she also
has a child. But with other friends, no, never. And men and women never
talk about sex with each other. Even husbands and wives.î

I thought briefly of Lucy and RickyÍs twin beds and the uproar caused by
showing Lucy pregnant on television in the 1950Ís. ñYou see, Cathy,
during the 1960Ís in America, we had what was called ïThe Sexual
RevolutionÍ and people in the United States began to open up much more
about their sexuality.î I chose each word very carefully, weary of being
AmericaÍs expert on sexuality for a curious Chinese woman.  ñBut my
parentsÍ generation didnÍt talk openly about sex. All of this openness
is relatively new in America. But I have a feeling that your daughterÍs
generation will have a different attitude towards being open about
discussing sexuality. Even with other men.î She pondered this for a bit
as we continued riding towards the karaoke bar. ñYes, I hope that my
daughterÍs generation will have a more open approach to sex. This is
important for China.î

She fell silent for a minute or so as we turned left on Wen He Lu.
ñChris, sometimes husbands sleep with other woman besides their wives,
but it is not supposed to be talked about. Husbands and wives donÍt
discuss this with each other, even if they both know about it.î I turned
to look at CathyÍs face. ñBut me, I cannot sleep with someone unless I
love them,î she added.  We passed McDonalds and an uncomfortable
stillness ensued, permeating the night air and giving me the sensation
of the two of us riding our bikes in slow motion. ñChris, you know that
the four of us friends love you very much. WeÍre going to really miss
you when you leave. You have brought happiness to us.î I swallowed hard
and barely missed crashing into another cyclist. ñIÍm going to miss you
all very much also, Cathy. YouÍve made my stay here really wonderful.
And I love you all too.î

Just then, Christine, Nancy and NancyÍs boyfriend caught up to us and
Christine said, ñHave you found it, Cathy?î ñOne minuteî she answered.
Cathy pulled ahead of the pack and I asked Nancy where Cathy was going.
ñShe is going to try to find her husbandÍs bicycle in front of one of
these karaoke barsî she told me. After another ten minutes of riding
from one karaoke bar to the next, CathyÍs mischievous persona returned
and she came out of an alleyway claiming victory. ñHis bicycle is hereî,
she said with a smile. ñLetÍs go!î

 We locked our bikes and climbed three flights above a restaurant
storefront until we entered a dark, cavernous bar cum karaoke club in
the back corner of a floor filled with various and sundry daytime
businesses. It reminded me of a few after-hours clubs IÍve wandered into
in New YorkÍs Meat Packing district. A hostess seated us in a dark
corner and I took in the scene. There was a corner bar, dance floor and
a karaoke machine with a large screen projecting film clips of young
Asian lovers holding each other or crying or parting company. Below the
lovers were written Chinese characters that alternately flashed as the
song revealed its ebb and flow of high-pitched tones.
ñIÍve never been to a place like this,î ñJeffreyî said, sidling up to me
at our table. ñA place like what?î I inquired, only partially
disingenuously. ñYou know,î he continued, ñA sex place. A place where
people meet.î Just then, Cathy asked me to dance and we sauntered past
the table where CathyÍs husband sat with an attractive young woman and
two other men. Almost as soon as we assumed a traditional ballroom
stance, CathyÍs husband and the pretty young woman got up and began
dancing next to us. For a still moment, the pretty young woman and I
stared at each other, fully aware of our roles in this passion play.

When we returned to the table, Pam, Christine and Nancy all sat quietly,
eyeing Cathy and each other, but not me. After a while of drinking tea
and eating fruit slices, I went up to sing Whitney HoustonÍs ñI Will
Always Love Youî at the karaoke machine, a song that I knew that Chip
loves. As the words appeared on the screen, I said, ñIÍd like to
dedicate this next number to Chip.î While singing, the barÍs proprietor,
a smiling, young woman, approached me and gave me a bouquet full of
artificial roses.

 When I returned to the table, Cathy said to me, ñDid you dedicate this
song to your friend Chip who visited with your mother?î ñChip? Oh no,î I
answered. ñI dedicated it to my sheep. I have a sheep at home that I
love very much,î I deadpanned. The women burst out laughing and we spent
the next hour trying to dance around the subject of CathyÍs husband
sitting not twenty feet from our table with the pretty, young woman.

ñI donÍt like that woman. SheÍs after my husband,î Cathy told me at one
point. As the night drew to a close, CathyÍs husband and the young woman
came over to our table and CathyÍs husband stood by placidly as the
young woman bowed her head and smiled at Cathy in a farewell greeting.
When she left, Cathy said to me, ñIt was hard for me to smile back at
her. I donÍt like her.î CathyÍs husband escorted the young woman to the
street and then came and joined us at our table. I joked with him a bit
and the tension subsided gradually. Cathy and her husband acted as if
this were the most normal situation in the world. Within another ten
minutes, we were out the door and down on the street unlocking our
bikes. Cathy and Jeffrey rode me back to Yangzhou Middle School and then
the two of them headed back to their respective homes.

I spent my Christmas Eve in the usual way, this time in Suzhou with my
friends Dennis and Mark. We ate snake for supper and went bowling. The
parents of one of Dennis and MarkÍs students owned the bowling alley and
the restaurant where we had our Christmas Eve banquet was on the second
floor of the bowling alley building. After 18 years away from the sport,
it was a thrill to get a 121 and to get to know the Foreign Language
Department at Suzhou Middle School better. Bowling alleys are a recent
phenomenon in China and it was interesting to see how the Chinese have
completed embraced this pastime.

On Christmas morning, Dennis, Mark and I took the train from Suzhou to
Shanghai and set up camp at the Shanghai Ritz-Carlton. For three
luxurious days, we attended champagne brunches, visited fine
restaurants, exchanged gifts under our tiny tree in the hotel room and
relaxed in the hotelÍs sauna, pool and jacuzzi. On Christmas evening, I
spoke to my family just as they were about to open gifts back in
Connecticut. Hearing my nephew and niece wishing me ñMerry Christmasî
and finding out what Santa had brought them made the hardship of being
so far away at Christmas easier to bear.

On New YearÍs Eve, I took the bus from Yangzhou to Nanjing and met my
friend Thom from Luoyang in the lobby of the JinLing Hotel. We ate
pepperoni pizza in the Black Cat restaurant and walked around NanjingÍs
streets, taking in a population utterly oblivious to a new year that was
only hours away. Although I knew that the Chinese celebrated the Chinese
New Year on the lunar calendar, I somehow anticipated that the passing
of 1998 into 1999 would elicit some sort of collective response.

At a quarter to midnight, Thom and I went to a public square next to our
hotel and sat in the darkness, watching street vendors sell fried fish
on a stick to passersby and recalling New Years past. As we sat there,
my memories brought me back to this same square only a month earlier.
Chip and I were in Nanjing together and had come to this very spot to
watch a group of Chinese who had placed a boom box in the center of the
concrete public thoroughfare and were dancing the Chinese three-step.
Husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends and occasional pairs of
women swirled happily to Chinese music in the cool night air, intent on
the dance, letting their mundane concerns fall by the wayside for a few
hours.

I pointed out to Chip a couple of women blithely spinning to the night
music. One woman was wearing a knee-length dress and school-marmish
glasses that seemed intent on hiding a beauty I was certain was there.
The other, taller woman danced the manÍs part, wearing trousers, a
button-down shirt covered by a beige ski vest and had a cropped bouffant
piled on her head that seemed to be in proportion with her tall, lithe
body. ñI think theyÍre lovers,î I told Chip. ñHow can you tell?î he shot
back. I waited and watched.

Eventually the two women took a break on the concrete bleachers that
surrounded the dance area. I watched as the more masculine-appearing
woman slipped her arm through the arm of the other woman, not in itself
a sign of coupledom in a country where same-sex affection is often
expressed physically in public. Suddenly, the tall woman stood up and
approached the area where Chip and I were sitting arm in arm. Not twenty
feet from us, she walked up to and began talking with a woman who would
be called a ïbull dykeÍ in any language one could imagine. Short and
stout with close-cropped hair and a heavy black leather jacket, this
older woman had a certain swagger about her, nodding and checking out
the scene with cursory glances as the taller woman spoke to her in what
appeared to be a deferential, respectful manner. As they spoke in hushed
tones, I was not able to make out even one of their Chinese words,
though I longed to be privy to their underground language. I squeezed
ChipÍs arm and we both watched their every move, every gesture,
comparing it mentally to our own lives and our friendsÍ lives at home.

I watched their every move just as a behavioral scientist would examine
his subject, unfazed. They chatted and laughed and mostly watched the
dancers enjoying one of the last evenings before cold weather set in. In
setting my mental trap of inquisition for these two women, I relied on
my finely tuned instincts of keen observation that have allowed me to
navigate the subtle, nearly invisible world of silent lives. Once, the
tall woman forgot her place and gently brushed her dance partnerÍs cheek
with the back of her hand. Soon after, as the crowd began to dissipate,
the women stood for a final dance. Only one other couple commanded the
makeshift dance floor, a petite woman in the arms of a tall, lanky man
who seemed to be combining and confusing a quick waltz with the Mexican
Hat Dance. The two women danced off tempo, lost in their own world on
the last dance of the season.

The dichotomy of these two discordant dance styles was disarming and I
squeezed ChipÍs hand to the beat of the quick waltz and quietly rubbed
his upper arm with the palm of my other hand. When the dance was over,
the women resignedly picked up their knapsack and walked off in the
opposite direction. They left me and Chip sitting on our cold concrete
slab before I could begin to imagine what the apartment they were headed
for looked like inside.

I began the ritualistic countdown: ñ10ƒ9ƒ8ƒ7ƒ 6ƒ5ƒ4ƒ3ƒ2ƒ1ƒ Happy New
Year!î Thom and I threw our arms up in the air and brought them down to
the panorama of weary street peddlers who were diligently checking the
fish, pork and chicken concoctions steadily bubbling in Mongolian Hot
Pots on uniform street carts. We ushered in the new year just outside
the range of steady illumination provided by a high beam street light
which seemed to care little about the waning activity below.

The next day, Mark and Dennis joined us in Nanjing from Suzhou. During
our stay, we all went to the Rape of Nanjing Memorial. Though it was my
third visit in as many months, I brought my camcorder this time. As I
was filming, a woman approached Mark and I with her two teenage
children. ñWhere are you from?î she said in good English. She seemed
pleased when we told her America. ñAnd where are you all from?î I
inquired. She seemed to bite her lower lip, then spread her right arm
out in an indiscernible gesture. ñWe are from Japanƒî Her head jerked
towards her outstretched arm. ñIÍm sorry about thisƒî  Her expression
was truly pained.

 ñItÍs not your fault,î I offered. We began to chat and Mark asked her
where he should go in Japan if he visited there next summer. ñWell,
Kyoto, and TokyoĔ Mark stated that he wanted to avoid big, crowded
cities. ñWell, thereÍs Kobeƒ or perhaps Hiroshima. ItÍs like this.î
Again, she stretched out her arm to the stone and marble monuments to
brutally murdered Chinese. Her tone was nurturing, not offensive. We
thanked her and proceeded on our way.

Monday, back in Yangzhou, I left early on an eagerly anticipated trip to
the countryside with my colleague ñDavidî. I had visions of pigs, horses
and barnyards, but my idyllic ñcountrysideî turned out to be a danwei
village centered around a factory which produced eyes and noses for
nearly 40% of the stuffed animals produced in China. One of our many
hosts, the father of one of DavidÍs students, led us through the factory
and then back to a reception room where a shifting cast of characters
sat for tea, conversation and a cigarette and then went somewhere else.
Eventually we went to visit the home of one of the men who had a high
position in the factory.

 Two dogs were tied up on the large patio/courtyard and the first thing
I saw when I entered the large, three-story home was a woman in a smock
sitting at an old sewing machine. Four men led David and I through the
house which belonged to one family and had a large karaoke bar, complete
with disco lights and dance floor, on the second floor. Before leaving,
we were ushered into a room shaped like a greenhouse where three women
worked on old machines spinning spools of yarn. I was told that this is
another business set up by the owner of the house. Just the day before,
I had read a Time article by a Chinese woman intellectual who decried
the rise in corruption in the New China. The quote in my mind that stuck
out most was, ñWhen no one in China had power, it was easy to condemn
corruption. Now that some people have power, corruption is rampant and
itÍs destroying my country.î I now understood that the two dogs were
guard dogs.

We were brought to a wonderful spread of a lunch banquet and then to a
factory store where we were allowed to take a free stuffed animal. After
a few more inexplicable stops where Chinese men talked on their cell
phones, ate bananas, drank tea and smoked cigarettes, we visited one
more home before heading back to Yangzhou. The house was three stories
and had the works: entertainment center, several full baths, expensive
furniture, paneling, decorative touches, etc. David told me that of
course most houses in the village were not as nice as this one. The
houseÍs owner was only two years older than me and chain-smoked while
chatting and bragging to an assembled group of seven or eight men
wearing ties. Upon the ownerÍs request, I told him how much his home
would sell for in the town where I taught. His chest inflated
perceptibly and several men slapped him on the bag for his new status as
a ñMillionaire in America.î

That evening I performed a postponed lecture for the doctor who cared
for me when I was sick. HeÍs a cardiologist who teaches a course
entitled ñMedical Terminology in Englishî After delivering a speech on
AmericaÍs changing health care system in the 1990Ís, I spent an hour
answering questions from eager medical students. One student asked me to
comment on AmericaÍs ñsexual problems.î I felt the blood rising to my
forehead and surprised myself at how much I wanted to comment on ChinaÍs
ñsexual problemsî Perhaps he was only referring to the Clinton/Lewinsky
scandal, but I avoided the subject altogether and moved on to the next
question.

The next day, I was informed that a local news station would spend my
final week in China following me around with a camera. I cursed my
misfortune, but resolved to make the best of it. I found myself being
uncharacteristically rude to the reporter who spoke broken English on
the phone each day, trying to pin down my schedule so that he could film
my final week.

On Tuesday, I held my final Office Hours. Russell, who keeps me informed
of the latest school news and gossip, told me that two awful things had
happened. One of his Senior 3 classmates had succumbed to the pressures
of preparing for the National
Exam and had run away from school. After three nights of sleeping on the
canal bank in Suzhou, he returned to school and was presumably going to
have another go at it. Next, Russell mentioned that the mother of
another of his classmates had died the Friday before. ñOur school was
involved a bit. ñVivienÍsî mother was at a conference with some teachers
from our school. They were all going to go have some supper together but
VivienÍs mother said she was going to go home first to get some
cigarettes, but she never came to the restaurant. They found her later.
She hadƒ She had been stabbed with a knife to death in her home.
VivienÍs family was the wealthiest family in her part of the district.î
The rest of the students at my Office Hours knew about the murder. Chip
claimed that the Chinese Mafia was responsible, but it could very well
have been a botched robbery attempt. In any event, violent crime is
certainly on the rise in China.

The ñPoetry and Musical Composition Projectî has turned out to be quite
a success. It garnered a full story with pictures on page two of the
Westport News and people both in Westport and Yangzhou have taken
notice. The reporter read JaneÍs poem ñLonely Teenagerî and wanted to do
a segment in JaneÍs home. I was hesitant about intruding upon JaneÍs family with her father having died so recently, but when I broached the
subject, her eyes sparkled and she grinned ear to ear.

On Wednesday, Jane and I rode our bikes to her uncleÍs apartment where
she and her mother are staying for the time being. They whole family was
very receptive to our intrusion and even served us a wonderful lunch.
After Jane and I filmed and photographed, we sat down to a table full of
steaming bowls of food. On my first bite, there was a bone that I had
difficulty stripping with my teeth in Chinese fashion. Just then, JaneÍs
aunt said something to her and she translated: ñMy aunt wants to know if
you like the dog.î Images of my motherÍs seventeen year old poodle
immediate came to roost as I tried as delicately as possible to spit out
the dog meat on the table.

My last days of classes were special ones. Some students performed their
ñTeenage Americanî skits in which they were to write and perform a piece
which reflected their perceptions of the lives of
American teenagers. One skit featured two groups of ñGangstasî who were
involved in a drug sale of heroin, complete with fist fights, guns and
knives.  In another, a principal caught a promising student unknowingly
talking with a known drug dealer. Once again, I think I learned more
from this exercise than the students.

For the last half of class, I had the students write on a piece of paper
any question they had always wanted to ask of me and to put it in a bag.
They loved this opportunity to get my candid responses and quite a few
of the questions involved my reaction to the Clinton/Lewinsky scandal
and the bombing of Iraq. As each class drew to a close, I had the class
gather around me in the middle of the room to perform a Russian
tradition reserved for those going on a long journey. Each student put
their hand on anotherÍs shoulder and then we were all silent for a while
as in their thoughts they wished me a safe journey home and a speedy
return to Yangzhou.

After class, many students gave me small gifts and quite a few asked me
to sign my name in their notebooks. For a brief moment, I was a
Hollywood star being hounded by adoring fans. Christy, one of my
students, told me that she had finally come up with a suitable Chinese
name for me. On a piece of her notebook paper, she wrote ñYou Pengî with
the accompanying Chinese characters and told me it meant ñHas Friends.î

On my second to last morning in Yangzhou, I woke up at 5am and went for